Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Lyndy Life Observation: Know how they sell gummy vitamins—makes you more likely to take it? They should do that with other stuff. How about gummy blood pressure medication? Gummy anxiety meds? Gummy weight loss? Except, if they taste like gummy bears then I’m more at risk of eating the whole bottle in one sitting—and that can’t be good.

His name was probably “Dwight” or “Kevin”— folks picked his name out of a hat.

The bank manager hiked up his Land’s End catalog “no-iron” pants after making his way round the row of teller windows. He’d been stomping over to confront her; didn’t seem to like it when people made him move. With his sweaty armpit stains and wearing a scowl, he began pecking out a series of commands on the teller’s computer.

After a drawn-out exhale through his nostrils, glancing at her sideways over top of his glasses, she expected some sort of intimidating lecture about official banker regulations. But an instant later the cash drawer sprung open—poking his belly. He didn’t bother counting out money, she just watched his hands like a hawk. Five Jackson and nine Benjamin.

He cleared his throat, then bellowed, “Will that be all today Miss Martinez?”

Wise choice on his part, not testing her will. Saved himself an unpleasant scene of a stubborn old Latina lady not budging. She’d have stood here all afternoon if necessary.

He pushed the stack towards her, then added: “Have a blessed day!”

Cha-ching. Lyndy stuffed the money in her coin purse. “You as well,” she replied.

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Minutes later …

She had trouble twisting the key inside the rusty padlock, an indicator just how long it had been. That and more cobwebs than a Halloween display. As it rose, the flaming orange roll-up door made an ear-splitting racket, its skinny slats and wheels rattling upon bent, unoiled track. Inhaling, flicking on the yellow utility light, she squeezed her way into the bunker-like room between the concrete-block wall and stacks of moving boxes.

Being a weekday afternoon, it was a slow time to visit the Sunset-West storage facility and she knew she could leave her car in the alley without blocking someone. As rents were continually on the rise in this part of town, she sometimes wondered whether she needed any of this stuff. Her late brother would have teased her for keeping it all. But as usual she’d come with a goal in mind, and sometimes this collection, a museum to her strange life felt like a treasure hunt, elevating her mood.

Blowing dust off a box labeled “X-MAS Decorations 89”, she pivoted at the hips and set that one aside. Beneath it, a plastic tub labeled “Pretty / Sexy Clothes” and next to this in fine print “don’t fit anymore”. Sad-smiley face too. Tempting to peek inside, but perhaps it was a pandora’s box better put off to another visit. Or else something for Maribel to comb through and snicker, following her mother’s passing. She moved it out of the way.

Beneath this, marking the lowest level of a totem pole of junk, an unlabeled box which felt almost glued to the floor. She believed this contained her photo albums as well as stacks of color prints still in their 1-hour envelopes. Yes everybody, before the internet folks used to keep physical photos in albums. Impatient, she wanted to undo the nested top flaps.

Before going down to her knees and digging in, she massaged her lower back muscles, bracing a hand against the wall. In the midst of resting, her eyes fell upon another box: “Camping Gear”. Unexpectedly it was calling her name—and not just because she hadn’t been tent-camping in years, with a longing to do it.

Catherine—another ghost from the past—was one who had quirky notions about gift giving, as over the years The Spitfire received some unusual and worthless trinkets from her waitress pal. But once, Miss Cookson had come through on a functional level. At a bargain store she’d snagged a pair of bird-watching binoculars for the princely sum of $2.00, presenting them to Lyndy on her birthday. Those things were splendid, crisp and simple to focus. Now they would be perfect for easier spying on the construction zone.

Pivoting on one heel and kicking her other leg over the adjacent knee-high stack, she worked her way to the camping stuff, brushing aside a stack of magazines. Ungraceful but effective.

Curving her fingers under the handles, she snapped apart the plastic tub lid. She was greeted with a surprise. Pressed amidst the camp stove and a tangle of ratchet straps, the life-like rabbit. Lyndy held the stuffed toy up to the light, shaking off an accumulation of fine sand. It was no ordinary bunny, rather a jackrabbit having voluminous ears, whiskers and skinny legs; purchased from a national park gift shop. Maribel called him Bugs. She’d not remembered packing this box, but there had been several moves in the interim.

For over two years, this toy went everywhere Maribel did. Most likely it was because Maribel wanted a pet. During that period in life they were far too transient to have a real pet. They lived in crappy apartments, sometimes with roommates, and most of those places didn’t allow for house plants, let alone animals.

She wasn’t quite sure what triggered it: memories, the disquieting reemergence of Rita as an influence in her life, or the idea of Maribel moving away out of state. She’d been attempting to dodge thoughts of Maribel all day. Whatever it was, she needed fresh air in a hurry.

Lyndy stuffed the rabbit back in the box, flattening its contents and pressing down the lid until it clicked in place. Briefly she fanned herself, then thrashed her way along the perimeter. Stepping out of the garage, into the blinding daylight of a cement alley, her chest was pounding. And though she’d quit long ago, she craved a cigarette—not that vaporized nicotine junk—but a real one. To be more specific, she craved a Newport; funny part was, Rita used to like the same brand. These days her lungs weren’t up to it. The slightest hint of rotten air could trigger a lights-out asthma attack.

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30 minutes later …

Lyndy Life Tip: Here’s one of those life hacks you can actually use. Kids seem to believe in the healing power of Band-Aids. So often when Maribel complained of a stomach ache, knowing there wasn’t much I could do, I offered to put a band-aid right above her belly button. And sure enough, it helped.

Thankfully, the mini-panic attack had quickly subsided.

Holding up one hand she wriggled her fingers, smiling to the lady in hospital scrubs who gave sponge baths. The woman smiled cheerily back to Lyndy. She remembered her name as Sonia, but needed a confirmation before shouting it out.

It was a hell of a tough job, working here.

Using her index finger Lyndy began scanning the visitor clipboard, checking the page for a certain name in decipherable cursive. Unable to find what she was looking for, Lyndy added her own name to an empty row in the log. In her other hand, partly hidden behind her back, a photo album.

This place had white rocks instead of a lawn. The floors were a chalky linoleum.

The staff at the county rest home all recognized Lyndy Martinez. They knew she was here to see Deputy Keynes. God knows who they believed she was; certainly not a spouse, but some kind of devoted friend.

“Hey, has Miranda been here?” she asked Sonia, but the answer was obvious.

The caretaker in scrubs shrugged, shaking her head no. “Been about a month.” What does it say about a person, wouldn’t visit her goddamn husband in a rest home?

“Well, that sucks,” Lyndy declared, loud enough to be heard by surrounding staff. Yet in some ways she couldn’t blame Mrs. Keynes for staying away. This place was downright depressing. At least it didn’t stink. Smelled like baby wipes or in some areas, pine scented disinfectant spray. In all caps she’d penciled in Melinda E. Martinez, so there would be no mistaking who had been here.

At the end of an L-shaped hallway, Dale’s room had a lovely view of a weedy, unmanicured hillside and retaining wall. Only a sliver of sunlight penetrated in between the extended roofline and the slope. But at least it had a window.

She paused in the hall a moment, observing him in profile, seated on the edge of his bed literally staring at nothing. He did that a lot. Was a time she’d bring him books to read, but it quickly became apparent he wasn’t interested. Where once he shared a passion for epic westerns and crime thrillers, now he seemed to lack patience even for a magazine or two.

Want proof life is messy? She and Dale had each taken dozens of blows to the head, lived recklessly, drank to excess. Hell, she’d rode on the back of motorcycles without a goddamn helmet—and fallen off. Twice. So why was he the one here? The father of two. The husband. And she going on as normal with most of her brain still operating. It all made no sense.

She took a breath, pushing down discomfort and fear of becoming like the man in front of her. Meanwhile he turned back, having heard or sensed her presence.

“There you are!” exclaimed Lyndy, bursting into the room with the zeal of a kid on Fourth of July. By the delighted grin forming on his tired face, she knew he recognized her; what a relief. His demeaner was otherwise modest and shy.

“How come you’re not in the atrium, enjoying this weather?”

He bobbed his head to the side, then back to the middle.

“Well, you’re in luck. I’ve brought us a trip down memory lane,” she added, wresting the book from behind her back, holding it in front of her chest as a surprise. “There are pictures in here Rita Lovelace took—remember Rita? How she always carried a camera? Like when a camera weighed two pounds! Both of us are here together in Vegas, when we were young.” Letting the heavy book fall open on the comforter, one at a time she slipped off her cowgirl boots. She left them squeezed together by the door. Then she hopped up on the bed, reclining on her side to thumb through it. She coaxed him nearer. “You’re in here too somewhere.”

Pressing his lips together, he squinted at the page.

“Need your bi-focals?” she queried.

Eagerly Dale nodded. Extending her arm, she plucked his glasses from the nightstand. Then using both hands, set them gently atop his nose, curling them around his ears. He did his best to hold steady for her as she did this.

“There. You know I can’t see worth a damn either unless I’m two inches from the page.”

He had blemishes and creases on his face earned over decades of being a desert lawman. His hat still hung from a peg on the wall and his badge, time worn, was stashed in a shoebox under the bed. A legend, or like the Joshua Tree, a living symbol of the west.

She placed her hand atop his, then opened to another random page somewhere near the middle. Lyndy chuckled immediately. “Oh man. Look at how cute we were in those hats?” She squeezed his hand and a grin began to form. Dale used his finger to draw an imaginary circle around one of the pictures, then gave the thumbs up sign. It was the car she and Rita bought from Darrel.

“Right. We paid $3000 for that car and I still think Darrel ripped us off.”

Seeing him this way, a little less miserable, it always brightened her day. If only everyone were as easy to please as Deputy Keynes.

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Lyndy Life Observation: Watching a kid at the grocery store complain to his mother about a problem with his tablet computer. All I can think is, kid, when I was your same age we had coloring. That was it.

Grudgingly she’d edged out of the fast lane as the pearl white Mustang sputtered on, this time struggling with a moderate 6-percent grade of Cajon pass. Traffic on the interstate was relentless—alas, they weren’t the only duo with dreams of slot machines, stage shows and glittering lights. And actually, it was visions of winning at twenty-one Lyndy most fantasized about, though she knew Rita wouldn’t approve.

Having downshifted from third to second gear, checking the tach, she knew the left lanes were out the question. They’d been demoted to sharing the road with smelly, plodding big-rigs. The fact it was boiling hot wasn’t helping matters. However, there was a positive; at least they weren’t stranded beside the road with steam shooting out.

She glanced to the side mirror. At this point they’d be fortunate to make bingo night at The Vanishing Point.

Then a rude interruption: the cabover next to them blasted its air horn, sounding like a locomotive and scaring the snot out of Lyndy. She swerved left, the whole car swayed, then corrected. She twisted a pinky in her right ear. In addition to a ringing, The Spitfire was fearful the trucker may have been trying to overtake.

The Kenworth rig was too tall to spot the driver inside, so Lyndy peered suspiciously to her passenger. From the guilty expression lingering on Rita’s face, she knew she must have done something to egg the trucker on.

Grinning to herself, Rita remained focused on a stack of envelopes, junk mail, fan mail and fashion mags resting in her lap. As they departed for the desert, Rita had collected it from a lockbox at the end of her driveway, equating to several weeks accumulation. She kept ripping the letters open, inspecting the contents, then dropping them in a sorted pile on the floor pan between her feet.

Fanning herself with one of the more sizeable envelopes, Rita slid her fingernail under the flap to tear along the crease. In her periphery, Lyndy watched as Miss Lovelace shook out a nicely typed letter—not even any correction fluid—done on a yellowish stationary with an embossed seal. At the bottom was an elegant signature, in full John Hancock style from a fountain pen. It said Fondest Regards, Christoph.

Intrigued, Lyndy divided her attention between the letter and keeping up with changes in traffic on the road. Aiming to be discrete, she shifted her gaze back and forth with her eyes, rather than craning her neck which would have made it obvious she was snooping. A minute or two passed like this, Rita studying the letter, every now and then muttering “mmm-hmm” or “oh”, but voicing nothing approaching complete sentences.

Finally having enough Rita folded it into thirds, shoving it out of view between the seat and door panel. “Sheesh Lyn, nosey much?”

Lyndy adjusted her grip on the wheel, flexing her fingers and returning her attention to the road. “Some dude named Christoph typed you a letter?”

“Very astute,” voiced Rita with a coy smile.

“How do people even know where to mail you a letter?”

“They don’t. This one is weeks old,” explained Rita.

“Does uh …. Christoph ride ponies on his country estate?” jested Lyndy.

Rita chuckled, folding her arms and staring out the window. A quiet moment passed, and then Rita added. “He’s a ski instructor actually. Lives in Aspen.”

“Oh … well, pardon me,” replied Lyndy. “That’s completely different. So you gonna write him back after geometry class? Check this box if you like Rita. Yes or no.” Lyndy pretended to check a box using an imaginary pen.

Rita frowned. Still with her arms folded, she started shimmying side-to-side in her seat as though suffering from a backache

“Sorry,” said Lyndy, thinking she’d overstepped bounds. Quickly she composed herself. “I’m probably jealous cause I’ve never been skiing. I should mind my own business.”

Rita continued her squirming.

Lyndy couldn’t help herself. “On the other hand…. I guess all I’m saying is this poor guy, he took the time to type you a nice letter. Least you can do is write him back. I know I would.” They were nearing the crestline, roughly 3750 feet elevation and Lyndy felt a small sense of relief. She shifted the trans into third, glancing down at the gauges.

Out of the blue Rita made a grunting sound—like an oof. Facing Lyndy, her demeanor took a turn to the grim. “Hey Lyn, is there a place you know we can stop for gas?”

“What? Why?” Lyndy looked to the fuel gauge. “We don’t need gas.”

Rita’s eyes were downcast as she gripped her left side beneath the ribcage.

“Uh oh. Ya gotta go don’t you?” Lyndy asked.

Rita nodded, eyes wide.

Tilting her chin back with both fists gripping the wheel, Lyndy laughed. “Oh man. It was that insane amount of coffee. I just know it!”

“You can have all the giggles at my expense you want!” scolded Rita. “Just find me a place cause I really don’t feel good.”

“Okay, okay. There’s a truck stop coming up with those plastic port-a-poties, kind with the blue stuff inside. It’s not much, but since we’re desperate….”

“Fine. Fine.” Rita grimaced, leaning forward some and putting her elbows on the dash.

“Miss Lovelace?” Lyndy asked more sympathetically. “Have you ever … you know… used a port-a-poty in your life?” She really did feel sorry for Rita.

“Once,” answered Rita solemnly, as though she’d just been sentenced to die. “It was quite awful.”